


a heart is not something you can throw away

by kaptivated



Series: let's tell a story about running away. [2]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: M/M, a companion fic for "hope is such a despicable thing", but it can be read alone probably, detailed warnings in notes, endgame spoilers, pre-game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 04:38:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12833454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaptivated/pseuds/kaptivated
Summary: [V3 ENDGAME SPOILERS]His tongue feels heavy in his throat. He can't say it. Can't admit that he isn't as heartless as he thought he was, as he wishes he was. So instead, he takes all his feelings - soft, vicious, gentle, twisted - and puts them into one kiss. Slowly, carefully (because this moment is so fragile and he knows it will break), his lips meet with that perfect smile.





	a heart is not something you can throw away

**Author's Note:**

> heeeeeey i'm back in less than 24 hours because it was bothering me so much how i made saihara such a bad person in my last fic. he's still a bad person, but now with his own pov! haha... ha...
> 
> you will probably enjoy/appreciate this more if you read my other fic, [hope is such a despicable thing](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12825783), so please check it out if you have not!
> 
> warnings for self-harm, underage sex, pain play, depictions of violence, implied child abuse, and implied suicide.

"I love you."

The words strike him like a stab through his heart.

"I love you so much."

Beneath him, Kokichi Ouma smiles. Something jumps in his chest, makes him want to laugh, makes him want to gag. For all the months they had spent together, playing like they were a happy couple, choking each other and getting off to it and calling it love, he had never seen Ouma smile. Not like this.

It's so pure. Blindingly so. Saihara, a monster that only knows how to hurt others, has to shy away from its light. Otherwise, he'll burn.

Why is he looking at him like that? How could anyone look at Saihara with anything but fear and disgust? He knows how everyone sees him. His teachers, his classmates, his parents. He knows because it's the same face he sees every single day, staring back at him in the mirror. His eyes, dull with disappointment. The color washed out of his face. Lips pulled into a hideous mockery of a smile, a thin veil to cover how hopeless he is inside. Some nights, when he finds it particularly difficult to put it on, he forces himself to laugh, laugh, laugh as if that will somehow make up for it. He laughs as he picks up a box cutter and makes tally marks on his pale skin - one for every cigarette he's burned, one for every person he's cursed, one for every cut he's made on Ouma that day. (That way, they can match. That way, he feels closer to him.) He laughs until he's hollow, too tired to feel anything anymore. He laughs because if he doesn't, he'll cry.

Monsters like him don't cry. They don't know how to. They don't deserve to.

It almost makes Saihara burn with jealousy, seeing Ouma smile so innocently. At first, he truly had thought that they were the same. Filthy. Irredeemably filthy. Hideous monsters wearing human skin and pretending to be normal. What a joke. How could any "normal" person enjoy hurting others, being hurt? What kind of "normal" person begged to be cut open, ripped apart, to have his limbs torn off, eyes gouged clean from their sockets? A "normal" person wouldn't touch himself while watching 16 people stab each other in the back, over and over, and do it all again when the credits roll for the 52nd time. Saihara was not normal. Neither was Ouma.

But they were not the same. Saihara was nothing like Ouma, because even as Ouma sat by his side every evening getting off to the sight of mangled, crumpled bodies piling up one by one, he still cried. He cried for the people he couldn't save. He cried for the disgusting mess of his life, lamenting his own hypocrisy.

Saihara remembers asking one night about Ouma's favorite character in Danganronpa. _It has to be Chiaki Nanami,_ he had replied instantly. _I-I really look up to her! She always brings everyone together, right? I w-wish I could make people happy like that too..._ (Of course it's the one character that had never been a real person at all. Because all humans, even the normal ones, are rotten through and through.) That was when he had first realized how truly alone he was. No matter what, he could never understand Ouma. He could never understand how he had been so hurt, so hated by the world, by himself, and yet somehow love humanity all the same.

Ouma would never admit that. But his actions betrayed him. It was written in the way he always gave in to Saihara's disturbing plans, killing off all his emotions for the sake of making Saihara happy. It was written in the way he still walked to school every morning, still studied until he grew bags under his eyes, still went home some nights instead of sleeping with Saihara because he "didn't want his parents to worry." He'd always come back the next day, a fresh bruise blossoming on his face, and Saihara would press his fingers against it, harder and harder until Ouma had to pull away, as if he could squeeze out some of that kindness for himself.

Ouma truly is a kind person, deep down. His kindness is going to kill him. Saihara is terrified.

He's been trying to get away. He started with small things. Wrapping his hands around Ouma's throat just a little tighter. Pressing the butts of his cigarettes into Ouma's flesh just a little longer. Deliberately sucking on his skin, biting hard enough to draw blood, in places where people will see. Maybe then they'd ask about it and Ouma, fed up, would expose Saihara for the monster he really is. Then they'd take Saihara far, far away where he could never hurt Ouma again.

He doesn't know if he wants that or not. He loves hurting Ouma. He hates hurting Ouma. He can't make sense of it. Can't make sense of his feelings. He wishes he didn't have them at all. He wishes he hadn't fallen in love with Ouma.

Because he has. He really has. He's fallen so far, a feat he didn't know was possible when he was already the lowest of the low. He loves the way Ouma squirms beneath him like a worm, caught in his claws. He loves the way Ouma tries to stifle his moans when Saihara drags a knife through his flesh, as if he knows he shouldn't enjoy it but can't help himself. He loves it when he threatens Ouma and pulls at his long, purple hair until he can see the skin rising up from his skull, strand by strand, and Ouma weakly grabs at his fingers, faking an attempt to pull away. He loves it when he comes on Ouma's face and uses it as an excuse to lick at his eyeballs, inside his nostrils, all over his adorable little features to claim him as his own. He loves whispering into Ouma's ear about all the ways he could eviscerate him, loves the way he shivers in response. It makes him so happy, so it must be love, right? Ouma makes him so happy, so it must be love, right?

No, no, no. That's wrong. That's so fucked up. He's so fucked up. His throat is burning, choking on guilt. He wants to slit it open.

But he can't anymore. Because if he dies now, it will hurt Ouma more than anything else. It's a hurt he can't wrap up with bandages. A hurt he can't replace with kisses tenfold. A hurt he can't ever fix, forever etched into his soul.

(Does that excite him more than it scares him?)

_I love you too,_ he desperately wants to say. _I love you so, so badly. I love you so much for staying by my side. I love you so much for not running away. I love you so much for showing me such a beautiful smile._

His tongue feels heavy in his throat. He can't say it. Can't admit that he isn't as heartless as he thought he was, as he wishes he was. So instead, he takes all his feelings - soft, vicious, gentle, twisted - and puts them into one kiss. Slowly, carefully (because this moment is so fragile and he knows it will break), his lips meet with that perfect smile.

But...

but...

it feels wrong. These emotions, they're all wrong. This isn't love. This isn't what love should be. (But it _is_ love, twisted as it is, and that's what scares him the most. He's scared of himself. Scared of Ouma's kindness. He wants to escape. He wants to get out. Please. Please. Please.) He stops, pulls away as if he's been burned, leaves the kiss cold and stiff. Numb.

(...how pathetic.)

Saihara continues his movements. In, out. In, out. The squelch of blood in between his legs. In, out. In, out. The ebb and flow of his breath, his attempt to regain control. In, out. In, out. The pain pumping through his heart as he tries, tries so hard to forget that Ouma said anything at all.

But Ouma, oh, he's so cruel.

"I love you so much," his lips repeat. His purple eyes sparkle, a mix of budding tears and sweet, tender affection. The light of someone who's found a reason to live. A light Saihara can never know.

The knife in his heart twists deeper.


End file.
